


i of the storm

by poedameroh (howtobottlefame)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Big spoilers for TFA, Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 06:31:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6459562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howtobottlefame/pseuds/poedameroh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight minutes after Ben Solo was born, he was finally allowed in his mother's arms. Eight minutes his wailing lasted, echoing loudly through the room, until his eyes opened and his mother's face took all the space in his line of sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i of the storm

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this very quickly i just had to get it out of my system because it makes me very sad

Eight minutes after Ben Solo was born, he was finally allowed in his mother's arms. Eight minutes his wailing lasted, echoing loudly through the room, sharp and unrelenting, until his eyes opened, big and bright and brown, and his mother's face took all the space in his line of sight. Three days they were kept in medical, ensuring the General's well being and the health of her newborn child, looking small and thin under fluorescent lights, and not even his father's arms could cease his crying quite as easily as his mother's did, cradling him like it was second nature to her, a small hand clutching at her thumb like it was a lifeline.

Two years after Ben was born, the sight of dust gathering over the Millenium Falcon became too much for Han Solo to bear, the impressive ship and the promises it held calling to him, luring him until he caved, allowing her to take him away for months at a time until the drumming in his veins was satisfied. At two, Ben Solo learned how to ask for his father.

At five, he learned how to stop. 

At six, Ben's hand still clutched at her mother's own whenever he was given the chance, the fabric of her dress clutched in a small fist whenever he was not. At seven, his smile was wide and his laugh bright when he managed to coax amusement out of his mother or one delegate or another, charming and kind as he was even at such a young age. He learned how to sit very still and stay very quiet as Leia took him to her many council meetings, making good use of whatever extra time she could have with her child.

When he was eight, Han Solo lost the Falcon, coming back with heavy footsteps and a look that screamed of humiliation. At eight, Ben overheard his father say he had lost what he loved more.

At ten, he watched with wide eyes as his X-Wing model hovered in the air before him, moving whatever direction he pointed to. He tried two, three times until he was completely sure it was his own doing before running to his mother, X-Wing clutched tightly to his chest, his proud grin brightening his whole face. He stood proud before his parents, _look what I can do, mommy_ , and laughed as the X-Wing hovered and moved in circles around the three of them. He held it in his hands when he was done and, when he turned his attention back to them, he swore he could see a hint of fear in his mother's eyes before she smiled, a hint of dread, of things too big to speak. He was so young, they thought he would be safe. The look in Han's eyes took a little longer to mask. 

Two days later, he heard his parents fight for the first time, loud and desperate, making tears prickle at the corner of his eyes every time he heard his name called out in erratic tones. At ten, Ben learned how to keep some things to himself.

At eleven, the voices started. One voice, to be precise. Kind and friendly in the back of his skull, reassuring him when he got scared, understanding, caring. 

At twelve, he put a name to it, and the friendly voice became a little more serious, a little more demanding. _You're too old for that kind of things now, boy_. His X-Wing remained untouched by the windowsill. When his fingers seeked blindly for his mother's hand, there was an unspoken reproach at the back of his mind. When he craved for the comfort of her arms, a bittersweet taste on his tongue that refrained him from getting it. When he mastered a new skill, a reminder of that one look they had given him, scared of what he could do, scared of him. _They don't love you like they did once._

At fourteen, he was sent away. He wailed and he screamed and he begged and not even his mother's loving arms could stop him. _They want you gone._ He begged, even seeked comfort in his father when his mother wouldn't listen, but in the end he still had to pack his bags. It's for your own good, his father had said. _What do they know of your own good?_ When his uncle arrived to take him away, he stepped into the shuttle without saying goodbye. 

At fifteen, he learned what hate was. He learned how shame felt when the other boys laughed at him, poked at his insecurities, seeming much louder than they really were. _Don't you want to make them stop? Wouldn't it feel good to show them you're better than them?_ He did. It would.

_You're so much stronger than them._

_Your uncle doesn't care for you as I do._

_You can do it. I know you can._

_You_ will _do it._

At sixteen, the fear of reproach from Him, of being a disappointment, was much stonger than the hesitance he felt, the scream that threatened to rip from his chest.

At sixteen, he learned what the taste of foreign blood was like.

At sixteen, Ben Solo died.

At seventeen, Kylo Ren forced himself to believe that the shiver in his bones, the ache in his chest, meant nothing more than the strength he had kept locked for all those years. _This is what being reborn feels like, boy, don't let it go to waste_. He was strong, stronger than ever before, and the galaxy would fear him, in time, just as he had feared it once.

At twenty nine, Kylo Ren saw his father's face for the first time in fifteen years, struggled to find the same man under all that grief and despair that creased his face. He pressed his sabre through Han Solo's chest and gasped at the fear that threatened to overcome him, an apology stuck in his throat, refusing to let it go.

At twenty nine, he learned what defeat tasted like, saw the face of a girl that seemed all too familiar, and when he closed his eyes and begged Him to help him, to give him strength like he always had, he found himself completely alone for the first time in years. His Master was gone, only bitter disappointment left in his stead, an emptiness at the back of his mind that left him weak, fearful even as a searing pain cut through his shoulder and half of his face, the taste of his own blood dripping warm over his lips.

At thirty three, Kylo Ren found himself restrained, weakened, the defeat in his bones wearing him down more than whatever physical injuries he sustained. His knees hit hard against the floor as he was brought up to General Organa, his head bowed, recalling Han Solo's face before he fell from that bridge and how different it had seemed, fearful of what he would see if he looked up. Long moments stretched between them, shame making his face feel hot, his hands twitch and tug at his restraints, and when he finally looked up and opened his mouth to speak, to curse and scream, no sound came out but a broken sob, escaping him before he could stop it, shaking him from his very core, overwhelming him with all those years he had kept it contained, restrained as he was now, refusing himself the opportunity to crave for anything other than the darkness that surrounded him.

At thirty three, Kylo Ren wailed and scream and sobbed, defeated, ashamed, regretful, and his mother's arms, as comforting as they had ever been, were the only thing that made him stop.


End file.
